Before traveling anywhere, the first thing I do is Google:

“Independent menswear shops Amsterdam.”

I confess, I do tend to change the location depending on where I’m going. For instance, I have found it unhelpful to use a map of the Oosterparkbuurt to find decent socks in Leeds. But on this occasion I was going to Amsterdam, and I was determined to discover what stylish enclaves lay beyond the tourist trammel.

Last year, Amsterdam’s top brass launched a ‘Stay Away‘ campaign, aimed at reducing the volume of frottage hungry, weed-addled, British youths, screaming, puking and fighting their way around the waterways. I can’t say it seems to have worked.

The infamous Red Light District is basically Alton Towers with tits. The Coffee Shops are rammed with Sports Direct casualties, all performatively honking back the chronic, trying to out-Wiz Khalifa each other. Then there are the weed ‘museums’. Pavements carpeted with spilt burgers. The ceaseless trumpeting of euro house. And beneath the blood red bulbs, 300 lipsticked grimaces, where the erotic meets despair.

Oddly, in the middle of this pound-shop Sodom you’ll find Comme des Garçons Black. I say oddly, I mean predictably — Comme is nothing if not deliberately abstruse.

Save for the girl working there, the shop was empty. She explained that unlike most Comme outposts, they had yet to receive the new SS24 collections. I felt sorry for her. I wondered if Comme HQ had simply forgotten about this store — happy to let it steadily become subsumed by the neon grot.

Away from the bongs and breasts, Amsterdam also boasts Cowboys to Catwalk — a pair of grown-up men’s and women’s shops stocking a wealth of serious clothing. Both stores are well worth seeking out; their Dover Street-a-like range of big hitters include Undercover, Casey Casey, Dries, Junya, Kiko Kostadinov, Lemaire, Raf, ERL and the now seemingly ubiquitous, Sky High Farm.

With deeply reduced AW23 sale pieces still kicking and screaming, the temptation proved too much. My Girl picked up a beautiful frilly Noir Kei Ninomiya knit, while I ummed and ahhed interminably over a boiled wool Casey Casey car coat, actually leaving the shop at least once, before returning and stubbornly relinquishing my debit card.

Another Amsterdam highlight is Concrete Store, albeit one that demands of its patrons a fearless approach to concepts of cut, fabrication and whether hats should have tops.

Inside, Henrik Vibskov and Walter Van Beirendonck go head-to-head in a war of the weird. Wonky sunglasses, balaclavas with giant eyeballs on them and blazers covered in airbags compete for the attention of the daring. Dig deeper and you will uncover some more demure options. Fans of relaxed Japanese tailoring will appreciate the Haversack edit, while the hypey Post Archive Faction and ever reliable White Mountaineering cater to slaves of elevated gorp.

But mostly, depending on your perspective, Concrete is either pioneering and visionary, or a pretentious display of unwearable clown clothes. Despite its minimalist, concrete interior, one leaves Concrete with scarred retinas – long after you leave, you’ll see phantoms of the aggressive patterns and explosive palettes every time you blink.

Back at our Soho House hotel base, I am asked if I want protein in my smoothie? I have a mental picture of raw chicken being whisked into my berries. I’m aware I’m an idiot, but nevertheless turn it down.

I dash back to the room for a quick freshen up. But can’t decide whether I want to feel ‘Calm’, ‘Uplifted’ or ‘Invigorated’. I return to the bar ‘Bewildered’.

Soho House Amsterdam is much like Soho House anywhere. On the one hand, you feel a bit posh and exclusive. On the other, the service frequently confuses cool with sluggish. While each time you enter the bar, the entire place glances up to check you out. After quickly concluding you’re a nobody, the eyes all drop back to the important business of foldering-up iPad icons.

To patronise Soho House is to submit to a kind of analogue Yelp. Unless you believe you’re somebody, your self-assurance will quickly wilt beneath the persistent critique.

That said (and there’s a lot said about Soho House at the moment) the rooms are superb, and even beneath a mournful February sky, the steaming rooftop pool manages to look inviting.

Back on the style trail, it’s time to visit Oallery. which is considered something of a Mecca for the Dutch streetwear enthusiast. Orbiting its formidable staircase you’ll find the kind of sweats, joggers, sneakers and beanies beloved of die hard backpack hip-hop fans who pretend to be able to skateboard.

They go big on Human Made here (not really my flavour) but Cawley, Martine Rose and s.k. manor hill make things more interesting — alongside standard go-tos like Nanamica, Needles and South2 West8. Maybe it was the proliferation of Be@rbricks (who buys those things?) or the Dutch rap soundtrack, but I ended up leaving with an apple green Ebbets Field Flannels cap. I believe it sends the right message: I own an MF Doom vinyl collection and I’ve literally never heard a song by Fred Again.

I hate to say it, but Margriet Nannings was a bit of a disappointment. Like Cowboys to Catwalk, it’s a pair of men’s and women’s stores, and from their website they looked worth a pop in.

Sadly the merchandising in the men’s store let it down, the rails were so full they looked garrotted. Peering into the mishmash it was hard to distinguish specific brands and styles. I did eventually find some old Winter 2023 Comme des Garçons SHIRT, but the discounts just weren’t competitive  —  30% off, when Comme itself had chopped 50% is just not vibes.

Doubtless it’s tough for a small indie to match the ruthless price cutting of the giants, which is why a brilliant in-store experience is so vital. Although I’m not sure the two ladies behind the counter in the women’s store agreed. The place was silent and they just stared. Unspeaking. Staring at me. Staring at my girl. It was as if we’d encountered a pair of Gorgons, I didn’t want to meet their gaze for fear of turning to stone. We quickly left.

Following a recommendation given to us by the girl in Comme des Garçons Black, we headed to Laan. It’s a bit off the beaten track, but the archetype of the knowingly now. 90’s Gucci, 00’s Fendi, shelves of (hideous?) wrap around sunglasses  — if you’re not wearing Prada Sport you’re not coming in. It’d go gangbusters back in Peckham. While not massively my style, I enjoyed a chat with the owner Philippe about the London pre-owned scene, as my girl procured a perfectly preserved Jil Sander wool skirt of indiscriminate vintage.

It may not be celebrated as a style destination, but Amsterdam has plenty of intriguing stores worth seeking out  — from women’s streetwear at Maha, to refined vintage at Concrete Matter. Although one of my key recommendations is not a store at all. If you do find yourself in the Dutch capital over a weekend, head to Skate Cafe.

It’s a 20 minute cab from downtown, but if you’re looking to have a great dinner next to an indoor skate ramp, before the whole place turns into a techno dungeon you can’t go wrong. The second room hosts live local bands, while outside gangs of beanie-headed scenesters play dodgeball on a five-aside pitch.

From a stylistic perspective, Skate Cafe is where the locals come to catwalk and there’s a lot of personal quirk here. So if you want to stand out from the herd, don’t forget to pack your most capacious trousers and an obnoxious bucket hat.